The tight skirt accentuated her narrow waist and hobbled her gait, causing her to undulate her tush in an exaggerated manner. The jacket had wide-spaced lapels. Beneath it, she wore a fuscia silk blouse that was unbuttoned to the "V" of her lapels. The obviously-braless DD-cup breasts jiggled sweetly as she moved. Her legs were clad in suntan stockings, dipping to fuscia ankle-strap pumps with five-inch heels. She placed her hands flat on my desk and leaned over, affording me an unrestricted view of her chasm of cleavage.
"Yeah, Ang," I admitted. "I have to say it was a really good one, too."
"I'll bet," she giggled with a wink. "You have that just-fucked glow about you. A girl can tell."
I almost jumped right out of my chair on that one. Was I wearing a neon sign around my neck, or what? I decided her comment had been innocent enough.
"Ya got me, Angie," I confessed good-naturedly. "She was good, too. I should know better than to try to pull the wool over your eyes."
"Damn straight!" she expressed. "So, not the Ex?"
"No, Angie," I confirmed, "not the Ex."
"Goooood," she purred. "That means there is finally hope for the rest of us peónes."
I reached across the desk, covered her hand with mine, and gazed into those big, expressive eyes.
"Whatever you may be," I intoned softly, "you are not a peon."
Her eyes seemed to melt – then adopted a more serious appraisal of me.
"Are you eating okay, Lance?" she queried.
"Yeah," I asserted. "Why?"
"Oh, I dunno," the lovely Latina teased. "It's just that you seem to have... lost weight."
I did flinch on that one. Her smile didn't lose an ounce of sincerity as she pulled her hand from underneath and placed it lightly atop mine.
"I mean, you still look good," she recovered quickly, "really, really good. I was just... complimenting you, is all..."
